Waster: Enter the Arena
by champayne17
Summary: This first story tells about an individual whose life-long dream was to participate in the Quake arena, and what happens when he gets his chance. Rated T for violence and strong language.
1. Chapter 1: Prolouge

Footsteps echo throughout the hall as I sprint as fast as physics allow. Choking for breath, begging for air, fighting the will to stop, I forgot all my previous training. Well, that's what the arena does to you. Once you enter, you live on pure instinct and adrenaline. Trying to obey common sense will only get you killed.

I turn as sharp as possible on corners, almost running into the wall. I do not want to waste a single spare footstep, because it might save me later. Drowning out my footsteps are something best described as clonks and clangs. Tank Jr. is on my tail.

Tank Jr. is currently the best in our class, 'Trainee'. He is recovering from a series of losses that brought him down quite a few ranks. He was rising to the top of the tier as soon as I joined the arena. While he is at the top, I am at the bottom, with 0 wins and 2 losses. I have lost enough tournaments, and I'm close to moving up to the next round. However, losing will make me give up my reservations to the next hopeful in line for the tournament forever. I must get into the next round. I am tied for 3rd place out of 5th with Tank Jr. right now, but If Tank kills me, I'll be in 4th, and I'll not qualify for the next round.

Rocket Launcher getting heavy, I drop it and carry on with my trusty shotgun. I get to a room so clean and reflective, it hurts my eyes. Running almost blindly forward, I see a wall. Dead end. I'm truly fucked now. Tank Jr. comes in, battle ready with a BFG, while I'm a sitting duck with shotgun. Oh well, here goes nothing.

"Click, Click."

Oh shit! I'm out of ammo. I shouldn't have dropped the Rocket Launcher. I'm done for. Tank Jr. has me in his sight, and slowly, as if mockingly moves towards me. This is it, all my hopes and dreams beaten to death by a BFG.

Suddenly, I hear a slight groan, not one caused by living things, but a sort of construction strain. Tank Jr. notices it too, looking around. A hear a crack, and look down. It's the floor. Oh…SHIT!

The next thing I know is that I am hanging on to a piece of the floor that hasn't collapsed over a pit of lava. Who puts fucking lava under a building!? That's it. My breath is gone, my arms are half-dead, and my own blood is blinding my left eye. Tank Jr. was standing on the outskirts of the room where there is a more sturdy construction. He finds his BFG and cautiously moves toward me. Even my gauntlet is nowhere to be found. Well, smoke 'em if you got 'em.


	2. Chapter 2: Origins

**THREE MONTHS PRIOR:**

"What's a dirtbag coward like you doing leaving my army? You ain't got half the guts to join the arena. Hell, even MY training couldn't turn a bratty teenage punk like you into a man!"

"I… I-"

"My point exactly kid, you don't have the balls to even talk back to me. You'll shit your pants after you get within ten miles of the arena at this rate!"

"I think the arena will do much better for me than… than your training."

"Get the fuck out of my office!"

"O…Okay…"

"Ha! I'll be watching you participate in the arena when I'm in the mood for a laugh."

"You won't be laughing when… when you see how far I'll go!"

I could hear the echoes of my sergeant's laughter going through the hallway as I walked out. I wasn't too confident that my life dream would work out.

Ever since I was 9, I would always run around with cardboard guns pretending I was in the arena. I had posters of all the big names in the arena at the time. Punisher, Rage, you know, all the people that have long left Quake arena and were forgotten. Now, new names are broadcasted all over. Everyone's running around with Sarge and Xearo t-shirts, and all the kids are talking about the new signature Anarki's hoverboard soon to fill the market. Things are always moving, changing.

. I grew up in an orphanage, never knowing my mom or dad. When I was 14 I ran away, seeking a life of adventure and danger. Boy was I fucking stupid. I then realized that a place to stay was a necessity, so I just kept staying with my friends for a while.

I then got serious about the whole arena deal. I joined the army when I was 16 to get the training I needed, but it wasn't the "do-little, buff-much" thing I expected. It was HARD. Quitting things before I was done again, I quit the army. I then had no place to go. Luckily, 16 was the minimum for the arena as well. I thought I would be a big shot straight away, the opponents would be easy, and that life in the arena would be nice and snug. Boy was I wrong. The longass paperwork was the easiest of everything.

"What's your name?"

"Eh…um… Crusher…"

"Haha, what kind of faggot name is that? Eh, doesn't matter, welcome to the arena… ehhh… crusher… haha!"

"So… um…. Where will I be staying?"

"Oh, yes. Right this way."

The official led me down several of the longest hallways I had seen in my life; some clean and pleasant, others broken and uncomfortable. We didn't talk again until we were on the elevator.

"So what brings you to the arena?"

"Oh it was sort of a life-long dream of mine."

"Really? You wouldn't believe how many of those we get. It's rare that they even survive the first tournament. I feel so bad watching them pack their bags and leave with tears on their faces."

That made me feel so confident about my standings here. Ugh, I should've wished to be a doctor or something.


End file.
